CALL ME BELOVED

we should never forget who we were
and the sad thing is we do, and easily –

or maybe the sadness is how we should
get better over time, aging and maturing
like wine, but I look in the mirror and see
the same petulant child that I recognize
in these haunting mannerisms I’ve tried
so desperately to shed.

but the thing is that I still cry like I did
in the schoolyard, kneeling on asphalt
and shoving my brother’s loving hands
off of my shoulders, except now
I’m alone, listening to nessun dorma
bounce off the apartment walls, alone,
filling my glass and emptying myself.
it’s a ritual, and I’m unclear as to whether
or not it’s of any benefit, any more –
there are many lines that have blurred.